


Rare Flora

by Sath



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, Switching, strongly implied Beleg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While lost in Doriath, Fingon makes an exciting botanical discovery, and comes closer to Húrin than ever before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rare Flora

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EdgeOfLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeOfLight/gifts).



When High King Fingon announced that he would take a war party to Nan Dungortheb, many volunteered to go. All of Barad Eithel was restive, and with the Siege of Angband broken, it seemed just as safe beyond the fortress as within it. Húrin lined up with the others of his house, expecting to be chosen to accompany his father. For the first time, Fingon chose to take Húrin, and not Galdor. Fingon put his hand on Galdor’s arm, having to look up to meet his eyes. He was not short—he stood a little taller than Húrin did—but seemed to gather companions who towered over him. His brother Turgon was certainly a giant.

“I trust you and Huor to guard the Ered Wethrin with your lives,” Fingon said, “and I promise I will return Húrin safely.”

Galdor embraced Húrin before they left. He whispered, “Do not let the king out of your sight. He’s more battle-mad than his father, and King Fingolfin challenged the Enemy himself.”

“I will do my best to respectfully steer King Fingon away from Angband.”

“I deem you and Fingon are of the same nature. Quicksilver tongues, and the first to fight,” Galdor replied, his brows furrowed. “Be careful, Húrin.”

“Good luck,” Huor said, lightly punching Húrin on the shoulder. “Don’t get lost.”

Though Húrin had spent almost as much of his life among the Noldor as he had with his own people, it never failed to impress him when they rode out to war. Fingon’s eye for pageantry was even greater than his father’s, and he never left Barad Eithel without banners and song. Húrin’s gaze often lingered on the king, but then, so did everyone else’s. The flash of real gold in Fingon’s hair would distract even a stone.

There was no sign of Orcs on the way to Nan Dungortheb, which was not a good sign. Ever since the Dagor Bragollach, the Enemy’s forces had passed through the valley however they wished. Húrin held his tongue while they passed the Echoriath, remembering his oath to Turgon never to reveal his time in Gondolin. Knowing Turgon as he did, Húrin could not keep himself from comparing the brothers; Turgon was slower in his judgments and more measured in his words, reminding Húrin of his own relation to Huor. For Turgon’s sake, he hoped Fingon had been a more understanding brother than Húrin had been when he was outgrown.

“Does something interest you about the mountains, Húrin?” Fingon asked. “You look at them strangely.”

“No, my lord. If am looking anywhere strangely, that is a quality of my face, and not my mood.”

Fingon smiled, amused but unconvinced. Even if Fingon knew where his brother was, neither of them could speak of it.  

The battle they sought finally happened on the borders of Doriath. It was cunning of the Orcs to retreat towards the forest, limiting the ability of the mounted Noldor and Men to encircle them. A few of the Orcs were riding wolves, and those were the ones Húrin and the best warriors pursued while the archers targeted the foot soldiers. Fingon stayed with the archers, mindful that his position no longer allowed him to lead from the front. He was deadly with a bow, but made no secret on the training field that his greater gift was for the sword.

One of the mounted Orcs, crazed from an arrow wound, spurred his wolf alongside Fingon’s horse. Húrin tried to call out to the king, but there was so much noise that his voice was lost in the chaos. Concentrating on his bow, Fingon did not notice the Orc until he was seized from the saddle and pulled onto the wolf. Fingon fought back fiercely, trying to draw his sword while the wolf sprinted towards Doriath. While the other Men and Fingon’s retainers hesitated, weighing their king’s safety against losing themselves in the woods, Húrin urged his horse into a gallop towards the Hidden Kingdom.  

The wolf disappeared as soon as it crossed the tree line. Whispering a quick prayer to Fingon’s gods, Húrin gave his horse free rein to race after the wolf. Arroch ran until her sides foamed, sensing Húrin’s urgency. Fingon had seasoned her, and she would seek after him to the ends of the world. Surefooted, she stepped over invisible roots and jumped over the mossy fallen logs lurking in Doriath’s undergrowth. There was blood on the path, red and black.

They caught up to Fingon in a clearing. He was alive and grinning, standing over the dead Orc and his wolf.

“Húrin! I hope you have not followed me unwisely; the Mazes of Melian do not discern between allies and enemies. But I am glad to see you.”

“I am relieved that you are unharmed, my lord.” Húrin dismounted and looked around him, seeing nothing but trackless forest. “Can you not find the way out?”

“No. We must hope that the march-wardens catch us trespassing, and are generous enough to lead us out again.”

“So we should walk as loudly as possible and make a nuisance of ourselves.”

“That would be the wisest course of action,” Fingon replied, patting Arroch’s neck and letting her drink from his canteen. “I was very good at being a nuisance when I was your age. The stories my brother could tell you would drive you east to serve in Himring, or maybe as far as the Gap.”

Always the one to lead, Fingon went ahead while Húrin followed with Arroch. The trees of Doriath made even Dór-lomin’s oldest stands seem young. Fingon was openly excited to be somewhere unknown, pointing out all the plants which were new to him as they walked.

Húrin had been alone with Fingon before, but always tied to the court and its customs, which Fingon went through with all the proper grace, and a little weariness. Beloved as he was, the crown did not rest kindly on Fingon’s head, and Húrin had to think back to his childhood to remember Fingon looking so happy as he did now, trapped in the forest of Neldoreth with only a few days’ worth of food. Fingon held up his hand, bringing Húrin to a halt.

“There is a powerfully queer flower over there,” Fingon said. “Do you see it? The bright red one, with the, ah, large outgrowth in the middle.”

Húrin was puzzled by Fingon’s loss for words until saw the thing for himself. The flower was at least as broad as Húrin’s chest, with only two fleshy petals like a woman’s sex and a stamen which resembled a massive erection more than anything else Húrin could consider. A glance at Fingon awkwardly holding a thumb to his lip to keep his expression innocent confirmed that he was thinking the same thing.

“A good question is: which part did you notice first?” Fingon asked, sending Húrin into a burst of laughter. Leaning over the plant, Fingon delicately pressed down on one of the folds. “It looks like there is some liquid inside. The plant may be carnivorous, or holding nectar for bats.”

“My lord, have a care.”

“Fish me out if I fall in, would you?” Fingon parted the petals and peeked inside, creating such an odd image Húrin was quite sure he would be baffled over it for a long time. The stamen enlarged, curling upwards, and while Fingon was uncountable years Húrin’s elder and the High King of all the Noldor in Middle-earth, Húrin had had enough. He pulled Fingon back just as the stamen exploded in pollen, spraying both of them and startling Arroch into bolting.   

“You have much more sense than I,” Fingon said, laughing and wiping the pollen away from his eyelids. “Do not worry about Arroch. She may find the Sindar before we do.”

A sneezing fit kept Húrin from replying, though he was not sure how to politely phrase that Fingon should not go sticking his head into strange plants. His head was starting to hurt, and he felt the warning aches and heat of a fever coming on. Taking a knife to his surcoat, Fingon cut two strips of cloth from the sleeves, giving one to Húrin so he could get the pollen off of his face. Fingon reached out to touch Húrin’s neck, his fingers against a pulse point as the mirth left his expression.

“You are unwell.”

Frozen in place, Húrin swallowed with difficulty. “Hay fever, and nothing more,” he replied. His skin was prickling where Fingon was touching him, and his arousal would have been evident if it were not for the mail he was wearing. Whether it was illness or Húrin’s own fruitless attraction, time would tell.

“We should move on,” said Fingon, turning away with a faint flush by his cheekbones.

Fingon was not sickened as badly as Húrin. He walked steadily forward, often checking behind him to make sure Húrin was still following. Distracted by watching a bead of sweat travel down Fingon’s temple, Húrin stumbled and had to steady himself by holding on to a tree.

“I need no aid,” Húrin said when Fingon moved to take his arm. “Sire, you should leave me behind, and come back for me after you’ve found the Sindar.”

Frowning, Fingon supported Húrin despite his words. He leaned in to feel Húrin’s forehead, saying, “I fear I know too well what is working upon you. My cousin told me about strange plants in Doriath stirring up desire, and fevers when resisted,” Fingon continued, as Húrin clenched his hands into fists to resist taking Fingon into his arms, “and like a fool I thought he was teasing me.”

“That I do believe.” Against his will, Húrin disentangled himself from Fingon. “I can bear it.”

The undergrowth seemed to have grown heavier, and everywhere were hidden roots and thorns. Even in full health, Húrin would have found the going difficult. As he was, Húrin was barely moving. He tripped and fell forward, barely saving himself from landing face-first in a bush which was undoubtedly poisonous.

“Please, let me help,” Fingon said.

His concern hardened Húrin’s resolve to resist. Húrin would not let Fingon’s kind nature drive him to give favours he would regret when he came back to his right mind. “Help me to my feet, my lord, and that is all I will ask.”

Though he knit his brows in doubt, Fingon lifted Húrin back into a standing position, careful not to touch him any more than was needed. Fingon was starting to look miserable himself, breathing quickly and shallowly while he avoided meeting Húrin’s eyes. They could not have travelled for more than fifteen minutes before Húrin lost his footing again and collapsed to the ground. He struggled to rise, but his body would not obey him. Rolling onto his back, Húrin’s view of the canopy was blocked by Fingon’s worried face.

“Ach, why will you not leave me here?” Húrin muttered.

“Are you so certain I can make it much farther alone? You are merely the first of us to weaken.”

“You are my king.”

Going to his knees at Húrin’s side, Fingon replied, “I do not rule in Doriath, and I would help you, if you allow it.”

Húrin believed there was no corner of Arda where he would not accept Fingon’s command, but he lacked the resolve to refuse forever what was offered freely. “Aye, then.”   

Fingon settled between Húrin’s legs, his hands unsteady as he hiked up Húrin’s mail coat and rolled down his braies; it was not nervousness that made his lord clumsy, and Húrin had enough mind left to worry that Fingon was as ill as he was. 

When Fingon wrapped his hand around the base of Húrin’s cock, the ache in his body lessened. The relief spread as Fingon closed his mouth around Húrin, shutting his eyes while slowly drawing his tongue along the shaft. Húrin tried to respectfully study the canopy instead of what he had wanted for years, but the feel of Fingon’s breathing against his skin kept his focus downwards. Fingon’s thick plait fell over his shoulder as he bobbed his head, obscuring part of his face. Pulling his hair back with his free hand, he opened his eyes to see that Húrin’s gaze was locked on him. As Húrin stilled, Fingon stroked his thigh reassuringly before reaching down to touch himself. The warm pressure of his mouth was as enthralling as the movement of his shoulder.

“Sire,” Húrin gasped, hoping that Fingon would understand what he meant. Fingon gave a slight nod without withdrawing, and the unseemliness of it broke the last of Húrin’s restraint. His climax felt completely different, more like a chill than a release, and he was still maddeningly aroused. But he had more control over himself and some of his strength back, enough to sit up. Fingon, however, was barely holding himself up on his elbows.

“This heat is bedevilling me,” Fingon said, weakly tugging at his mail. “Help me get this off while I still have a little sense left. My prudence has already fled.”

While Húrin lifted the mail over his head, Fingon wriggled unhelpfully. His hair was badly mussed and some of the gold threading had slipped out, and when Húrin went to tuck the gold back in, he found himself kissing Fingon instead. Fingon gripped Húrin’s arm hard as a vice as he eagerly returned the kiss, every bit as confident and forceful as he was in court. The strength in his fingers almost distracted Húrin from getting the rest of Fingon’s clothing off, and the way Fingon would chase after Húrin’s lips when they were forced to part was even worse, but he somehow got Fingon down to his mail leggings and braies. There were far too many belts and straps left, and Húrin was sweating under his own armour.

He started the long process of stripping himself, wishing that it had been the custom of his people to ride into battle wearing nothing but a loincloth as he discarded each layer covering his chest. A breeze cooled the sweat on his exposed skin, and he looked up to see Fingon taking a knife to the leather straps holding up his own leggings so he could shove off the last of his clothing. Fingon stretched onto his back as Húrin stared, making no secret that he was basking in Húrin’s appreciation.

“Did you desire me before now?” he asked.

“Desired you, adored you, loved you,” Húrin replied, needing to touch him again. He pushed Fingon against the ground so he could kiss his tanned skin and whisper apologies for his boldness. Fingon’s slim-waisted silhouette in court dress had hidden how solidly he was built, and Húrin wanted to experience all of it.

“Will you take me?” Fingon said, sliding his palm over Húrin’s prick. Húrin groped for the unguent in the pack he had tossed aside, startling when he heard Fingon cutting through the fabric of his braies and pulling them off. “Hurry; I think I’m losing my mind,” Fingon added, as if the destruction of Húrin’s undergarments were not warning enough. His legs still covered in mail, Húrin nearly dropped the jar in his haste to prepare himself. Fingon was panting as he waited, his eyes gone so dark there was only a narrow ring of blue showing. When Fingon hiked his legs up to Húrin’s shoulders, Húrin tried to enter him gently, but Fingon grabbed the belt holding up Húrin’s leggings and pulled him forward, breathing out the word “please.” Being inside him felt like possession, Fingon wanting and needing Húrin so much, and Húrin tried to fix himself to the simpler pleasures of his body. Húrin braced one hand on Fingon’s upper arm and stroked his cock with the other, thrusting hard while Fingon was nearly bent double. Fingon tightened his hand around the belt as he moved with Húrin’s hips. Húrin’s mail dug painfully into his knees while Fingon moaned, urging him on. Whenever Húrin slackened the pace in the slightest, Fingon would beg for more and tense in discomfort until Húrin returned to the old exhausting rhythm. He resisted the end as long as he could, biting his lip to distract himself with a little pain. Húrin came against his will, but this time it brought him some relief.

The plant was still agonizing Fingon as Húrin withdrew. There were tears of frustration in Fingon’s eyes, which he wiped away with a feeble attempt at a grin. “This is the most absurd way I’ve suffered in my life,” Fingon said.

“Let me try something else,” replied Húrin, shifting lower.

Húrin started slowly, licking up and down the length of Fingon’s cock while Fingon scrabbled at the dirt, the muscles of his thighs flexing as he held himself back. The desperate noise Fingon made when Húrin wrapped his lips around the head and sucked was all the approval Húrin had wanted. Fingon’s prick was soon pressing against the back of Húrin’s throat and he fought the response to gag. He felt Fingon caress his cheek before carding his fingers through Húrin’s hair. Húrin leaned into it as he took him deeper.

Fingon’s control did not last for very long. He guided Húrin’s mouth further down his shaft, sighing with pleasure when Húrin’s lips were flush with his groin. Húrin forced himself to stay relaxed and rubbed his thumb over where Fingon was still wet from Húrin’s seed, opening easily for his fingers. Swearing, Fingon arched against him and thrust into his mouth. Húrin would have groaned if he could. He pressed upwards as he moved his fingers, making Fingon cry out again. Fingon trembled as he edged closer to release, finally spilling against the back of Húrin’s throat. Húrin pulled back his head sharply, spitting out what he did not swallow.

“If you need anything more of me, you’ll have to wait for me to catch my breath.”

“How stalwart,” Fingon replied, sitting up with a wince. Massaging his shoulder, he said, “I wish I had noticed that rock before I had lain down on it.”

“I wish I had got properly naked.” Húrin unbuckled his belt and rolled his mail leggings down, glad to be rid of them. The links had left imprints on his knees even through the layer of leather. He threw them spitefully at one of the trees before resting back on the soft, mossy ground. Doriath was largely free of vermin; they probably could not compete with the poisonous plants. Fingon joined him.

“You should tell me to leave you alone,” Fingon said, leaning in to kiss Húrin’s shoulder. “I am still affected.”

“Is that a command?” Húrin parted his legs when Fingon’s hand dipped between his thighs, his body already responding. “My lord.”

“No. We are still in Doriath.”

“Thingol has done nothing to earn my loyalty. If he stuck his head into an obscene-looking plant, I would not rush to his aid, even if he promised me his daughter.”

Laughing, Fingon nipped Húrin’s neck, moving his fingers further downwards. “You say that without having ever seen Lúthien, or Thingol. Then again, neither have I.”

“I’m certain you are fairer than either.”

That made Fingon raise his eyebrows, though he was clearly pleased. “Blaspheme louder, and bring a Sinda to lecture us on the unequalled beauty of Lúthien Tinúviel.” 

“If they did not hear you earlier—” Húrin began, cutting himself off when Fingon forced the tip of one finger inside him.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?”

“Once, but I sadly never ran into her and her devices again,” Húrin said, and sighed when Fingon went up to the knuckle.

“Handily, I bring my own equipment with me everywhere.” Fingon kissed Húrin roughly, removing his fingers before rolling Húrin onto his stomach. Unbelievably, the pollen had Húrin fully aroused again; the Sindar were missing out on valuable trade by not selling it. He went up on his knees, impatient for Fingon to stop patting around the undergrowth for the unguent and return to what he had been doing. The jar opened with a loud snap, then Húrin felt Fingon run one hand down his spine, making him groan. After slicking his fingers, Fingon pushed two inside, and Húrin rocked backwards. It was less strange than his first experience, though he was now more than simply drunk. Húrin did not have to wait long before Fingon was pressing the head of his prick against his entrance, easing in before withdrawing, going a little further each time until Húrin was pleading for him to truly move.

“I should be more careful with you,” Fingon said, gripping Húrin low on his hips as he finally entered him completely, sending a shudder through him. “I want to be more careful with you.” But Fingon started to thrust, and the feeling went straight to Húrin’s untouched cock. Fingon was quiet except for the sound of his breathing, his hands wandering over Húrin’s body in a way that made him feel admired.

“You are too gentle with me,” said Húrin. 

Leaning forward, Fingon tilted up Húrin’s hips as he tangled his fingers in his hair, changing the angle to something which made Húrin gasp. “What would you like better?”   

“Leave me sore,” Húrin dared him, bracing himself on his crossed arms.

The first thing Fingon did was let go of his hair, grasping Húrin’s shoulder instead. He kept sliding his cock over the same spot as he went faster, unfairly making Húrin feel close to climax before he had even begun in earnest. Three times in a row was surely too much, no matter how potent the plant was. Húrin was held motionless by Fingon’s hands, and he could have broken his control only with difficulty. The thrill of being evenly matched was soon overshadowed by the pleasure of being fucked. He came without having to be touched, flinching at the sudden discomfort of pushing his body so badly. Fingon stilled shortly afterwards, kissing the nape of Húrin’s neck before he let him go.

Drained, Húrin lay back and watched Fingon gathering up their clothes. Though Fingon was bending over in a very comely fashion, the pollen’s ability to excite him had finally reached its limit.

“It looks like a boar barrelled into an armoury, and hated everything he saw,” Fingon said, dropping the laundry next to Húrin before he sat down. “I’m sorry about what I did to your braies.”

“Sacrificed to duty,” Húrin replied, waving his hand. He was content with the idea of dozing naked on the forest floor, except Fingon, for some reason, kept trying to dress him while he was trying to sleep.

* * *

A booted foot was nudging Húrin’s shoulder. He spent a few moments in disbelief at how he ached in every muscle, with a sore throat and a sorer backside from the king tucked in beside him, resting peacefully. Now that he was in his right mind, Húrin felt hungover, and rather like he had disappointed his father. Húrin did not remember putting his shirt back on, but there it was.

The boot belonged to a glowering Sinda with a bow as tall as he was, and he was quite tall. “I do not know what displeases me more: seeing a Man in these woods, or a Noldo lordling.” His accent was thicker than Húrin had heard from any of the Sindar who came to Mithrim.

Sitting up, Húrin groped for dignity, as well as his shirt, which had nearly ridden up his waist. “We came across a strange plant.”

“I’m sure you did,” the Sinda replied with an irritated turn to his mouth. “It’s called the Wedding Leaf. You are lucky it seems to affect Men only a little differently than us; Orcs go into a killing frenzy. The Noldo would sleep a few hours more, but I am keen to be rid of you both.”

The Sinda crouched down to hold smelling salts under Fingon’s nose. He woke with a start, wide-eyed as he took in the scene. Then with perfect poise and a slight wobble, Fingon got to his feet and sketched a bow in nothing but his shirt and braies. “Hail,” he began. “I am Ingoldo Findion and this is my retainer, Thurin son of Galion.”

“I don’t care if you’re the High King of the Noldor,” said the Sinda, staring meaningfully down at Fingon. “I will show you out. My comrade is already herding the others who wandered in, and I hope for all our sakes that they left the plants alone.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many years later, when Túrin asked Beleg if he'd ever spoken to his father, Beleg coughed a few times and said no. 
> 
> This takes place in F.A. 461, so Húrin would've been twenty. 
> 
> Arroch is not an original horse character, but probably wasn't a mare. 
> 
> I lifted Húrin's "That I do believe" directly from Túrin in _Children of Húrin_.
> 
> Fingon introduced himself as "A Noldo, the son of Hair, and this is Secret, the son of Galdor's name in an early draft."
> 
> Braies [look ridiculous](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3d/Braies.jpg) and are very unsexy. Destroy more of them, Fingon! 
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta, LiveOakWithMoss. And thank you, EdgeOfLight, for having such a great letter! I loved writing this, and I wish I'd had time to write every single one of your prompts.


End file.
